Off Kilter, part 1
by yankee306
Summary: Mary's fear of Marshall's getting injured again is interfering with her job. Will she have to leave her partner in order to protect him?
1. Ch 1: Shaken

_**off kilter, chapter 1**__**: shaken**_  
**Author:** yankee306  
**Pairings/Characters: **Mary and Marshall, bien sûr  
**Rating: **PG  
**Spoilers: **Very general Horst & Stan by Me  
**Summary: **Mary tells Marshall that her fear of his being injured again is interfering with her job.

**Chapter 1: Shaken **

Marshall's seatbelt had barely clicked into its lock before Mary pulled out of the parking lot and headed east. She was quiet, had been since another team of U.S. Marshals had driven away with the three fugitives they'd captured after an extended chase.

She'd thanked the other marshals before they left. "Glad you got here when you did. Nothing like the cavalry arriving in the nick of time," she said with a faint smile.

"And thanks for handling the ever-treacherous paperwork," added Marshall. "We'll send over our reports tomorrow for the file." He spent a few minutes b.s.-ing and joking with the other marshals while Mary called their boss to update him.

"All three are in custody," she told Stan. "Gaskill and Levin caught up with us and are taking them in," she said, referring to the second team of marshals. "Wilson still all right?"

Stan assured Mary that Reed Wilson, her witness, was safe.

"He's shaken up, but seems to be taking this more or less in stride. He's back at his apartment and we've got a security detail on the building. I've put in for an emergency relocation. Wilson's already packing up for the move."

"Thanks."

Mary's witness would have to be relocated now that he'd been found by those who wanted him dead before he had a chance to testify against them. Though three of the suspects were in custody, a fourth was still on the loose. There was a good chance they'd hired contract killers as well.

"Anybody hurt?" Stan asked.

"Cuts and scrapes," she responded. "Marshall's wrist is sprained and he's got a bullet graze."

Something in Mary's voice didn't sound right to Stan. "Are you sure that's it?" he asked.

"Sure, I'm sure. See you soon."

Mary wasn't sure. Even though she had been exaggerating with the "cavalry to the rescue" bit. Even though she and Marshall had been more than holding their own and likely could have subdued the fugitives without help from the other marshals. Even though Marshall's injuries were minor, her bruises and scratches trivial.

She was shaken just the same.

Now, Mary and Marshall were heading back into Albuquerque, the chase having taken them 30 miles or so outside of the city. Mary planned to drop Marshall off at home. He couldn't do much in the office with a sprained wrist and he didn't see any reason to stop at the E.R. "All they'll do is tell me to ice it and to keep from moving it. I've got ice, and I've got a sling."

After that, she'd stop by Reed Wilson's apartment and prepare him for the transition, then go to the office and write up her report. No big deal.

"Not bad for a morning's work, huh?" Marshall asked, more to break the silence than anything else.

"Yeah," Mary answered flatly, not taking her eyes off the road for even a cursory glance at her partner.

Marshall sighed and settled back into the silence. He was tired and his wrist ached and Mary could stew over whatever she was stewing over.

That thought lasted for a few minutes before Marshall tried again. "So what are you mad about? What Mary rule have I broken?" Usually he could tell what was bothering Mary, but not this time.

She stirred a little, surprised. "Mad? I'm not mad."

"Well, you're something. You don't do pensive. You sulk; you yell; you mock; you snark. You don't ruminate."

"I don't think snark's a verb, doofus. Even I know that."

This was progress. She sounded more like herself, calling him names and razzing him for knowing something he didn't.

"True, you won't find it in the Oxford English Dictionary, but it's become a common enough colloquialism that it's acceptable for casual usage. I, unlike l'Académie Française, for example, take a descriptive rather than prescriptive view of language. Language is a living thing and we shouldn't straitjacket—"

He stopped mid-sentence as Mary turned and glared at him. "In any case, it really is the right word for what you do."

"Whatever." Mary used that flat tone again and turned her eyes back to the road.

Marshall sensed he was losing her and that she would quickly sink back into her funk if he let her.

"O.K., you're not mad. What are you?" he asked.

"Tired. And bored of this conversation. Am I required to entertain you 24/7? I thought you were the court jester in this partnership."

"See? You snarked."

"Can't you just leave me alone?"

"Apparently not. C'mon, Mare," Marshall implored, his voice gentle.

There was a long pause before Mary said, "I'm . . . off kilter. Freaked out, I guess."

It was Marshall's turn to be surprised. Mary didn't freak out over a scuffle and a bit of gunfire. "At what?" he asked.

"At your getting shot back there."

"Shot? Jesus, Mare, it was barely a graze; it hardly needs a band-aid. Even if I'd gotten hit, it was only my calf—no major blood vessels there and not much chance of it being serious."

"It could have been worse." It had been over a year since Marshall had been shot while he and Mary were transporting a witness. He'd come terrifyingly close to dying.

_It could have been last time all over again. It was only luck that saved you then. What if we weren't lucky this time? You could have died, Marshall. __**You could have died.**_ Each word pounded in Mary's head, hammer against skull.

Just as she did every time she replayed that whole sickening day over again in her mind, Mary felt her chest tighten and a cold sweat break out on the back of her neck.

"It could have been worse," Mary repeated, struggling to push away the memory and regain her composure.

"But it wasn't worse. Besides, those guys were the Keystone Kops, not a squad of trained assassins—from the Arabic 'hashshashin,' by the way."

Mary's tone began to show her impatience. Marshall wasn't getting that this was serious. "I couldn't keep my mind on the Keystone Kops. I kept seeing you lying on the ground again, bleeding. It scared the hell out of me," she told him.

"I know the feeling," Marshall said quietly, almost to himself. _'Scared' doesn't begin to describe it._

"That was different," Mary protested, knowing Marshall was referring to her kidnapping six months ago.

"Different how? It doesn't count when I'm the one who's scared for my partner?"

He was both irritated and confused. How could Mary think that he couldn't relate to her fear? He could feel every minute of that whole nightmarish day of not knowing where she was, who had taken her, whether she were dead or alive. Each dead end had been crushing, each fresh lead agonizing, because what if it was just another one that didn't get him any closer to finding her?

"No, that was different because it wasn't on the job. It could've happened whether or not I was a marshal—hell, given Brandi's being . . . Brandi, it's probably inevitable that something like it would've happened eventually." Mary's sister Brandi was a walking disaster and Mary was forever cleaning up the destruction left in her wake.

"And that makes it okay that you nearly died, that—" _That I nearly lost you._ Marshall's voice cracked just a little. He looked away so Mary didn't see the tears start to well up.

They had no idea they were hurting each other by insisting that their own pain and fear had been greater than their partner's. They didn't know they were sharing the same thought: _Don't you understand how much I need you? How lost I would have been—would be—without you? It wasn't worse for you than for me; it couldn't have been._

If Marshall had realized that Mary had to stifle a wail that was building at the back of her throat, he would have stopped contesting her claim to fear and concern. If Mary had known that Marshall had slipped his hands under the jacket on his lap so she wouldn't see them trembling with the memory of the moment he heard she had been taken, she would have allowed that the situations were not so different. But they didn't know, and blundered on.

"No, it's not okay. Marshall, listen to what I'm saying. It was horrible. I'd give anything for it not to have happened. I thank god you were the one looking for me." She paused, remembering both her terror and her certainty that Marshall was moving heaven and earth to rescue her. "But it didn't happen on the job and it didn't happen when you were there."

"I know. I'm sorry, Mare. I should have been there."

"That's ridiculous. I was driving to work, you moron. Partner or not, you're not responsible for me every minute."

"Still—" Marshall began.

"Stop it. If you've been feeling guilty about that, get over it. You didn't do anything wrong. I'm the one whose screw-up got you hurt. I wasn't doing my job because I was too wrapped up in being mad at you. I wasn't keeping watch. I wasn't even protecting our witness, never mind my partner._" I wasn't protecting __**you.**_

"You've got that backwards. The witness comes first." Marshall paused and added dryly, "Until we find out he's a contract killer, obviously."

_The witness is __**supposed **__to come first. But if I'd had to choose . . . _

"Doesn't matter. I almost got you killed." Mary stopped, unable to go on. Her grief and guilt were starting to overwhelm her.

"Mare—"

"I can't talk about this anymore. Besides, we're at your house and I need to go see Reed." She pulled into Marshall's driveway.

Marshall had forgotten she even had a witness to check on. He climbed out of the SUV and closed the door. He opened his mouth to say something through the open window, then thought better of it. Mary was already backing down the driveway.

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My first fanfic, so comments & reviews especially appreciated. I don't offend easily; the negative is as welcome as the positive. Big thanks to bithablu and snerkyone for beta'ing.


	2. Ch 2: Radio Silence

**Summary: **Mary keeps quiet while she tries to figure out how to keep her fears for Marshall in check.

**Chapter 2: Radio Silence**

Two days later, Mary was back in the office, having transported her witness to Atlanta and turned responsibility for him over to another WITSEC inspector. She'd been accompanied on the trip by an Atlanta-based marshal, Elise Sanchez, who had happened to be in Albuquerque on an unrelated case. Stan's superiors were always hectoring him to trim costs, so he'd taken the opportunity to score some points with the brass and arranged to have Sanchez go in Marshall's place.

As a result, Mary hadn't talked to Marshall since she'd driven him home. There wasn't any reason to, not officially. She'd had a couple of brief conversations with Stan during the transport but otherwise no interaction with the office.

It felt odd—uncomfortable, really—not to have spoken with Marshall. Not that there hadn't been weekends or other stretches of a couple of days when they hadn't talked, but this didn't seem like a regular there's-nothing-going-on silence. It was more of an I-don't-want-to-resume-that-conversation-with-you silence. Instead of calling Marshall, she'd continued _that _conversation in her head.

_I was—I am—off kilter. Freaked out. The day you were shot I wasn't keeping watch because I was so damn mad—so damn __**scared**__—that you might quit the marshal service. Those assholes should never had gotten within a hundred feet of us. You'd have been safer with some wet-behind-the-ears rookie as your backup._

_And I couldn't concentrate on capturing those numbnuts fugitives the other day because I was so afraid you'd get shot again and this time you would die. We were lucky that they didn't put up much opposition or we might actually have needed the assist from Jenkins and Levin. What if they hadn't come in time?_

Mary knew that this just wasn't workable. If you wanted to get yourself—and anyone else—out of a tight spot alive, you had to deal with what was in front of you at that moment. You couldn't afford to chase "what ifs" around in your head when someone was shooting at you. If she couldn't give her full concentration to the job, what good was she to anybody?

_And that's the point. The point is that I was concentrating more on you, Marshall, than on my job. Way more._

_My job, my sworn duty for chrissake, is to protect witnesses and capture the bad guys, but if I'd had to choose, I'd choose you, dammit. Every time._

That was normal, though, wasn't it? The bond between partners was unbreakable, was _**supposed **_to be unbreakable. Marshals, cops, soldiers, firefighters. Walking into a firefight or a burning building was completely unnatural, insane really, unless you could feel your buddies around you, ready to risk anything at your side.

Lots of partners must feel the way she felt from time to time, that they'd sacrifice the mission to protect their partner. The important thing was not to act on the feeling.

_But what if the feeling's not just from time to time for me? I've had it for months now. What if it never goes away? I can't do my job like this, waiting for the moment when I do act on it and a witness gets killed. No, something's got to give—marshal or . . . Marshall._

She grimaced at the stupid pun, which only Marshall would appreciate.

So when Mary strode back into the office after returning from Atlanta, she felt off balance but determined not to show it. Marshall was leaning on his desk, flipping through a file, his long legs stretched toward the window. Mary greeted him with, "'Morning, doofus. How's the wrist? Have you managed to parlay your injuries into a little TLC from any sympathetic bar babes?" She tossed her bag on her desk and sat down.

"'Parlay?' You've got a word-of-the-day calendar stashed somewhere in your desk, don't you? But 'bar babe?' Please."

"Library babe, whatever. She'd get one look at your war wounds and take off her glasses . . ."

Mary said as she stood up and pretended to whisk off a pair of glasses.

". . . let down her hair . . . "

Mary tossed her head and tousled her long hair.

She walked over to Marshall, who was standing now, watching her with amusement, and continued,

". . . gaze soulfully into your eyes . . . "

Marshall started as Mary clasped his one good hand between her two, pulling him toward her and locking eyes. His grin dropped away. She turned her face up toward his and pulled him in closer.

". . . and . . ."

She breathed huskily into his ear,

" . . . forgive your late fines."

She dropped Marshall's hand and swept away with a flourish.

"I never have any late fines." Marshall's reply was deadpan, if his breathing somewhat quick and shallow.

"Of course you don't." Mary rolled her eyes and sat back down.

Marshall muttered something dark and unintelligible while he stared after Mary with an expression somewhere between "What the?" and "Get back here!"

Stan stepped out of his office. "Everything kosher with Wilson?"

"Yup," Mary answered. "The trip was smooth as glass and now he's officially someone else's responsibility."

"You don't have to sugarcoat it for us, Mare," interjected Marshall. "It must have been a hairy trip if you had to maintain radio silence."

"What are you talking about? I kept Stan up to date."

"So then it was just me that you cut off," said Marshall, with a show of hurt feelings. "Chopped liver, thy name is Marshall."

Only it wasn't a show. As he often did with Mary, Marshall was hiding his real feelings in plain sight. He had been hurt that Mary hadn't called him from the road. Usually, when one of them traveled without the other, they called at least once, often several times, with complaints about the other marshal's inadequacies or a belated rejoinder to a week-old jab or any of a hundred excuses to hear one another's voice.

Marshall told himself that Mary had just been tired from the quick turnaround or trapped on the phone negotiating the latest Jinx or Brandi drama or, for all he knew, flirting with "U.S. Marshal E. Sanchez," whoever he was. _Yeah, or she didn't call you because she didn't. 'Call if you need me'—that's what you always say to her. The inference shouldn't be hard to draw. _

Oblivious, Mary turned back to Stan. "Anything I should know about here?"

"Eleanor's on vacation for the rest of the week. That's it."

"Hell, if I'd known that, I would have come in early this morning just to savor her absence." She shrugged. "I'll have to work late to make up for it."


	3. Ch 3: Almost Normal

**Summary:** Marshall begins to suspect that something's going on with Mary.

**Chapter 3: Almost Normal**

The next few days were uneventful. Mary did more than her usual share of paperwork because she couldn't stand listening to Marshall's excruciatingly slow one-handed typing. They went together to visit witnesses and worked through various small crises. One witness developed a sudden paranoia and was sure she was being followed everywhere. She found UPS drivers particularly suspect. Another just froze up when confronted with the day-to-day aspects of building a new life and needed some handholding.

Mary talked and joked with Marshall and complained about Brandi and a dozen other things, as usual.Still, Marshall felt Mary keeping some distance between them. She wasn't cold or cutting; something just seemed . . . off. He flashed back to her "off kilter" remark.

Marshall hadn't thought all that much about it since the day she said it, other than to feel a pleasant warmth at her concern for him. He knew that she cared about him at least that much; enough not to want him to leave her, either by dying or walking away, but hearing her say it was gratifying. It gave him just a little something to hang onto.

Obviously it wasn't good for her to be distracted in the middle of a shootout, but it was nice to know that her concern for him was strong enough to disturb her concentration. He figured her freak out was a one-time thing, the result of being in their first truly dangerous situation since Mary's kidnapping.

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Mary was trying mightily, with little success, to push aside her anxiety about failing at her job because of Marshall. Well, not _because_ of him, exactly. More like on behalf of him.

Sometimes she managed to keep the thoughts at bay for a day or two, but then she and Marshall would have to draw their guns for one reason or another and she was consumed by worry once again. Or, even more troubling, she would happen to glance at him and catch an expression on his face that was particularly dear to her. _"Dear"? Since when do I use the word "dear"?_

She couldn't let anything happen to him and she just wasn't a reliable partner for him any longer.

Marshall or marshal? It was a false choice, of course. She could transfer out of WITSEC and take on different marshal duties here in Albuquerque. She'd still be a marshal and Marshall would still be her friend. Most important, Marshall would have a partner who could keep him safe.

Or she could go into private security, as Marshall had contemplated at one point. It wasn't the same as being a marshal, but it wasn't entirely different. What about the Albuquerque P.D.? There was some friction in her relationships there, but they respected her skills. Hell, Stan might even get the extra pair of inspectors he kept asking for, and she could team up with one of them.

That stopped her. Work in the same office and see Marshall partnered with someone else? Forget it. That would be unbearable.

She turned the options over and over in her mind, but there was no way out. All of her choices were unbearable because they all meant not being Marshall's partner.

Stay and get Marshall or a witness killed. Or go and . . . what? Go and not see Marshall 12 hours out of every 24, 6 days out of 7? Shouldn't having dinner or a beer a couple of times a week be enough for friends? It didn't feel like enough. All of a sudden, being with Marshall seemed to be an all or nothing proposition.

"Oh, hell," she said, to no one in particular.


	4. Ch 4: Marshal or Marshall?

**Summary:** Mary chooses the best of her bad options.

**Chapter 4: Marshal or Marshall? **

Mary had decided. Transferring to the Fugitive Task Force was the best of her bad options. She could never submit to the discipline of the police department or put aside her revulsion for assholes who got rich enough to need private security by ripping people off, usually legally.

As a standard-issue marshal, she'd still help out WITSEC from time to time. Some days Marshall would have business at the courthouse where her office would be, and they'd have lunch. He'd still drop by her house with leftover Chinese food sometimes. It wasn't all that she wanted, but life was unfair.

Not least of all, she'd be releasing Marshall from his promise to stay with her and allowing him to set down the burden of feeling responsible for her.

She tried to tell him once. "Listen," Mary began. She and Marshall were drinking coffee at Mary's kitchen table before carpooling to the office.

"Yes, dear," answered Marshall, looking up from the newspaper with a fake TV-commercial smile.

"Right. So, the thing is . . . that I, um, I . . . need to drop off a couple of suits at the dry cleaner on the way in today. We should leave a little earlier than usual."

"Whatever you say, hon!" said Marshall, still in character as Generic TV Husband. He turned to the imaginary camera and said, "Take it from me, fellows. Give your little lady what she wants, and she'll give you what **you** want--" Marshall gave a big wink, "Hungry He-Man Beef-o-Burger Supreme Processed Meat Product on your dinner table tonight!"

Mary rolled her eyes, though she actually loved this goofy side of him. "Ready?" she asked, her hand on the doorknob.

"What about your dry cleaning?" Marshall responded.

"Almost forgot." Mary shrugged and tapped her forehead with the heel of her hand before dashing into her bedroom. She opened her closet, tore open the dry cleaning bag hanging in it, and pulled two neatly pressed suits off their hangers. She paused to twist and crumple the fabric into a passable imitation of a couple of suits in need of a good cleaning.

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She tried to tell him another time. She'd had a blow-up with some nimrod FBI agent and Marshall had gently steered her out of the office before she completely torpedoed their chance of getting the information they needed.

It wasn't one of her more spectacular explosions by any stretch, but she still wanted to tell him that he wouldn't have to prevent or repair damage for her for much longer. "Thanks for bailing me out before I went too far over the top, even if he was a complete moron," she told him.

"I live to serve, m'lady. Your wish is my command. Et cetera."

"You won't have to do too much more of this, though," she began, gearing herself up to explain why, when he interrupted.

"Turning over a new leaf again, are we? I'll have to see if Bobby D wants to get in on the pool this time. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and say you can go a week without physically assaulting anyone."

He was grinning ridiculously and reaching for the phone to call Detective Dershowitz. Mary didn't have the heart to ruin his fun.


	5. Ch 5: The Distance Between

**Summary:** Marshall finally asks Mary what's going on.

_[I know I'm not very good at Mary's dialogue but I haven't quite figured out how to write it. Working on it . . . . Specific suggestion about how I'm getting it wrong would be appreciated.]_

**Chapter 5: The Distance Between**

After a week of wondering if he was imagining the distance between them, Marshall had had enough. He hated it when he didn't know what was going on with Mary. Her volatility was hard enough to handle when he did know. There was no telling what might happen when he didn't.

He also hated it because it made him miss her, even though she was right there. There was only so much intimacy Mary allowed him—only certain _kinds _of intimacy—and he didn't want to lose any of it.

Marshall suggested he and Mary get a drink after work. She hesitated, imperceptibly to anyone other than him, before saying, "Sure." Shit. Did he suspect what was going on in her head? _He probably just wants to wind down before he goes home. As well as he knows me, I'm sure he still has no idea that I'm planning to leave. Why would it even occur to him? _

They drove separately to one of their regular bars. Mary got there first. She ordered a couple of draftsat the bar and grabbed a table in the back.

Soon Marshall sat down and wordlessly lifted his beer toward her. She did the same, took a drink, and then asked, with some trepidation, "So, what did you wanna talk about? Or did you just want to spout some of your irrelevant blather?" Best to plunge right in.

"Talk about?" asked Marshall with a shrug. "Nothing in particular. I just wanted to hang out, catch up." Best to ease her into it.

"Oh." _Phew. _"So how are things with you?" Mary asked.

Marshall's confusion was evident on his face. "What are you doing?"

"Catching up, doofus."

"You never ask me how I am or what I've been doing." She _**never**_ asked him how he was. He doubted she ever asked anybody other than her witnesses. Toward them she was attentive and caring. _Granted, sometimes the caring takes the form of a tirade, but ultimately she's making sure they get where the need to go._

_So why is she asking me now? Is this related to how she's been acting? _

Mary was deflecting, confirming Marshall's suspicion that there was probably something she wasn't telling him.

"I don't? Jesus, you're right. I'm an even worse friend than I am a girlfriend."

_At least as a girlfriend you would come with some pretty damn amazing fringe benefits, _Marshall thought, but definitely didn't say out loud. He tried to quickly banish thoughts of Mary's hands, Mary's lips, Mary's curves. What he did say was, "It's all right, Mare."

"No, it's really not. Jesus. It doesn't exactly occur to me to ask. You just always _seem _fine—unless you're mad and that blows over pretty quickly."

"Monsieur Sangfroid at your service." He bowed slightly.

"If 'sangfroid' actually means 'cold blooded'"—a little high school French came back to Mary—"that's not it. You're anything but cold or indifferent. You're warm and thoughtful, and . . . calm. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, you're actually a nice person, aren't you? Why am I even friends with you?" Mary seemed genuinely perplexed. "You'd probably say it's some stupid yin yang thing: you're nice and I'm not; you're fine and I'm not."

Marshall didn't say anything at first. Then, "I—" followed by another silence. _Am I fine? Yes, no, sometimes. I'm certainly not going to tell you that my answer usually depends on what's happening with you. Whether you're fine, whether you're chained in a basement somewhere, whether I'm feeling close to you, whether I know you're on your way to meet Raph. Christ, I am an unholy mess. _

"So what exactly should I be doing here as a friend now that I've discovered what a crappy one I am?" Mary asked. "Waiting for you to say something when you're ready or beating it out of you? Or maybe offering to be your wingman with those two short-skirted babes over there?"

"I told you before; I don't pick up women in bars." Marshall frowned. "Besides, they're not my type."

"Oh, right. Your type is some intense intellectual who can carry on a conversation about your latest arcane obsession. Who would actually **start** that kind of conversation, heaven help me. Let me tell you right now: There will be no double-dating."

"I thought you and your boyfriend were strictly indoors. Anyway, my type runs more toward smartass blondes." Marshall kept his voice light, trying to make it sound like just another bit of their regular banter rather than the confession it was.

Mary started to speak, but Marshall jumped in. "I know, I know, he's not your boyfriend. He's your monkey love slave cabana boy."

Mary raised her eyebrows. "Don't forget red-hot Latin lover. Another drink?"

"Beer and a shot. Thanks."

Talking about Marshall's type brought his mind back to Mary's body—_she is so goddamn sexy_—and the things he wanted to do with her if he ever got the chance. _Which you won't, so stop fantasizing about it and making yourself crazy. _

Mary came back, somehow balancing two beer mugs and four shots of whiskey. "I decided to save us another trip to the bar," she said while Marshall helped her unload the drinks without spilling any.

As Mary sat back down, she asked, "Stop dodging the question. Are you fine? C'mon, I'm trying to do this friend thing." Mary answered her own question. "When we're not working, you're probably at home memorizing train schedules or reading the life history of some schmuck no one's ever heard of. And that somehow makes you happy." _And you're probably relieved to be away from me, too, so you can have a few hours off from protecting me and the world from each other._

Marshall gave a small shrug. "I do like my evenings at home reading, but it's not like I sit alone with a book every night. I'm not quite that pathetic. There are lectures at UNM and mambo lessons and . . . other things."

"It doesn't sound pathetic. OK, a little pathetic." She smiled at him. "Hey, you want a break from your pathetic routine? I'll tell you what: You can have Jinx and Brandi a couple of nights a week, bring some high drama into your world."

"Thanks, but I get plenty of drama from being around you. I respectfully decline your generous offer."

"You know," Marshall continued, "instead of sending the Chaos Sisters to my place, you could come over more often. Anytime you want a break, really. Consider it a standing invitation." _An invitation to be with me whenever you want. Not in the __**way**__ that I want, but I'll take what I can get. _

"Good to have an emergency backup plan for when the hysteria gets out of hand," she said breezily, obviously not seriously considering his offer. "You ready to go? I'm kind of beat." Mary saw a chance to escape before she felt guilty enough or got drunk enough to tell Marshall she was leaving.

"With half a beer and two shots left on the table? Besides," Marshall began, "there actually is something we should probably talk about."

Mary sighed. _Oh, crap. Here it comes, but what is it? _

"It's just that I've felt like you've been keeping your distance from me ever since the day we chased down the guys who were after Reed, and I can't figure out why. What's going on?"


	6. Ch 6: Disordered

**Summary:** Marshall suggests a way out of Mary's dilemma. Will she take it?

**Chapter 6: Disordered  
**  
Mary felt herself panicking. Most of her wanted to say, "Distant? You're imagining things, doofus. Everything's just like it always is. Go read up on common household items that make you hallucinate and figure out what you sniffed by mistake."

But tonight the small, persistent part of her that wanted to be honest with Marshall won out. Looking at her hands, she said, "You're not wrong. I've been needing to tell you something that's not easy. I've chickened out a few times already. I'm—" She paused, looked briefly at Marshall, then looked away.

"You're . . . what?" prompted Marshall, alarmed. He had expected Mary to answer with a joke, a barb, a look, almost anything other than this small, still voice. _What could be so hard to tell me? Not many things would make you chicken out. _Marshall's mind went in all directions. _That you're . . . pregnant? Moving in with Raph? Both? Or, oh dear god, that you're sick? You need some huge surgery? Chemotherapy? What?!_

Mary took a quick breath and rushed out the words. "I'm leaving WITSEC."

Marshall froze, his whiskey glass raised halfway to his mouth. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. Mary was . . . breaking up with him. With an effort, he regained use of his muscles and raised the glass the rest of the way, threw back the shot, and then banged the glass on the table loud enough to turn a few heads their way.

"That's insane, Mary. You love this job. It's part of who you are."

She took a sharper tone, trying to get him to back off. "No, I'm not insane. I've actually thought this through very carefully, though you probably don't think I'm capable of that."

Marshall stood and walked several feet away from the table, then circled back, pacing, trying to master his panic. _No way this is real. Mary leave WITSEC? Ridiculous. Beyond ridiculous. There's something I'm missing here. I just need to figure out what it is. Figure out how to walk her back off this ledge. _

After a moment, he walked back to Mary and said, as lightly as he could, "Have you considered that no one else would ever hire you for anything? No one but the federal government can afford that kind of liability insurance." He was stalling while he tried to puzzle out what was behind this.

"I'm going to transfer to the Fugitive Task Force, so Uncle Sam will still be on the hook."

Marshall sat down, more confused than ever but profoundly relieved. _That's all? I'll transfer to the Albuquerque crossing guard squad as long as you're my partner._

"OK, so you're still planning to be a marshal, just not with WITSEC. Tell me the problem with WITSEC, and if we can't fix it, we'll transfer to the FTF or wherever you want."

She stared directly into his eyes. "No, _**I'm **_going to transfer. Just me."

"Oh." She didn't want to leave WITSEC. She wanted to leave _**him.**_ Oh. Well then, why not hand her a fishing knife and let her gut him right there? It would hurt less.

Marshall took a breath and tried again to understand what this was really about. "You're the one who says we've got the perfect arrangement as partners and best friends."

"It used to be perfect. The thing is, I can't do the job anymore, not with you."

He felt the knife twist.

Mary went on. "Ever since you were shot, I worry about its happening again so damn much that I can't keep my mind on my job. I thought things would get back to normal, but they haven't. It really hit me last month with the Reed Wilson thing. We were in serious trouble and I couldn't think straight. I was so damn preoccupied with keeping you from getting injured instead of planning how to get the better of those assholes that I could have easily gotten us both killed." Mary raised her eyebrows. "How about a little irony with your cappuccino today, Mr. Mann?"

"That's why you were so upset about the microscopic bullet graze to my leg," said Marshall slowly, realization dawning. "Why didn't you tell me, Mare?"

"Because it could lead to only one conclusion, and I wasn't ready to face it."

"That conclusion being that you have to leave WITSEC?" Marshall asked.

"Yes."

"Jesus, you're an idiot."Marshall shook his head and laughed a little. His anger and fear melted away.

"Wow, thanks, Marshall. That definitely makes me want to stick around."

"I hate to break it to you, Mare, but you're not as special as you think you are. This is just garden variety PTSD."

"It's not PTSD," she insisted. "I've been through that already. Besides, I'm talking about **your** near-death experience, not mine."

"Doesn't matter. Sometimes a partner or loved one experiences symptoms of PTSD after another's trauma. And in this case, you also experienced trauma firsthand. After all, your life was on the line, too."

Mary tried to take in what Marshall was saying. _PTSD by association? Does Marshall know what the hell he's talking about? He always does, doesn't he? He was right about how I reacted after the kidnapping. He could be right now. If he's right, that changes everything._

"So that means you think I can get my head out of my ass and actuallydo my job instead of worrying that I can't protect you or a witness?"

"I don't just think so. I'm sure, Mare." _I have to be sure. Just like I can't leave, you can't leave either, not that you'll ever make that promise._

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Marshall. I really thought this was going to be it. I didn't see any other way that didn't end up with you dead."

Mary couldn't believe it. That was all? Weeks of turning herself inside and out, wondering how she could stand to leave Marshall, how she could possibly tell him—done, gone, washed away.

Marshall grinned and the light returned to his eyes. "That's what you get for making decisions without me. Try not to let it happen again."

Mary gave him a wary smile, still not ready to accept Marshall's diagnosis entirely.

"I'm not sure I buy it. I've been trying to push aside the anxiety for almost a year." _But if it's true, I can have both. I can have Marshall Mann __**and**__ Marshal Mann._

"People can't always do it alone. You need help. What about Shelly?" Marshall asked, referring to a psychologist for the marshal service.

"I'll think about it." She put a hand up to forestall his skepticism that she would carry through. "Really, I'll think about it."

Mary didn't want to be in the spotlight any longer. She asked Marshall, "Did you? About me, I mean? Have PTSD?"

"Not exactly, but I felt . . . more protective of you after you were kidnapped, that I had to be more on guard." Marshall had relaxed enough to make a joke. "There may also have been flu-like symptoms."

Mary laughed, letting herself relax a little as well.

"And now you're over it? You let the bullets fall where they may?"

"Now I'm back to . . . believing in you and your incredible ability to get done what needs doing. It's not that I don't notice when things get dicey, but there's this . . . bedrock. My faith in you is the bedrock on which I stand. It lets me do what I need to do." Marshall held her gaze, his eyes projecting his faith in her, if that were possible.

Mary didn't know exactly what to make of this speech. It was quintessentially Marshall—a little grand, layered with metaphor, his real meaning not entirely clear to her.

Marshall interrupted Mary's musings to ask, "Do you trust me?"

Her answer was immediate. "With my life. With everything. God, Marshall, don't you know that?"

"Can you trust me that while it may take some time, it will—_**we**_ will be all right?"

Mary was still skeptical, but it had to be worth trying.

Aloud, Mary said, "Christ, am I going to have to be the damn river again?"

"Maybe a brook this time. Or a stream, a rill, a tributary, a creek, an estuary, a runnel, a rivulet." Marshall was having fun.

Mary groaned. "That's enough, doofus. Time to go home now."

They said good night in the parking lot. He watched her drive away in the direction of Raph's apartment rather than her house. He immediately felt the familiar knot in his stomach, the tense shoulders, the clenched jaw. He took a deep breath that didn't help much and headed home.

A few blocks away from the bar, Mary suddenly made a U-turn toward her house. She didn't want to be with Raph. After weeks of tying herself up into knots over losing Marshall as her partner, she just wanted to enjoy the sudden peace. She inhaled and exhaled deeply and let the relief flood through her. She didn't have to choose between two of the things she loved the most. Mary's shoulders relaxed and a small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Sleep well, Marshall. I'll see you tomorrow.__

  
**End of part 1.**

**----------------------------------**  
**A/N: **I think part 1 can stand on its own, but I am writing a part 2, which may be a while in coming; it's in the early stages.


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